


The Tree Ornament Club

by wingedspirit



Series: Winter 2019 Prompts [17]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 31 Days of Ineffables Advent Calendar Challenge (Good Omens), 31 Days of Ineffables Advent Calendar Challenge 2019 (Good Omens), M/M, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Unrepentant Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-17 23:33:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21851470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingedspirit/pseuds/wingedspirit
Summary: Someone signs Aziraphale up to receive a tree ornament every day in December.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Winter 2019 Prompts [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1560823
Comments: 17
Kudos: 153





	The Tree Ornament Club

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [drawlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drawlight)’s [advent calendar prompt list](https://drawlight.tumblr.com/post/188869931294/aziraphale-crowley-for-half-an-hour-youve-been) (day 17, ornament).

It all starts on the first of December.

Most of the mail that arrives at Aziraphale’s bookshop is junk mail, and as such, politely disintegrates itself as soon as it pops through the mail slot; but today, a small box that he wasn’t expecting makes it through, and falls to the floor with a soft thud.

Of course, Aziraphale is immediately curious.

The box is festively decorated, with tiny stylised Christmas trees printed all over it. Inside is a square envelope, resting on top of a small object of indeterminate shape wrapped in tissue paper printed with the same decoration as the box.

Inside the envelope is a card that reads:

> _Welcome to the Tree Ornament Club!_
> 
> _You are the lucky recipient of a gift membership. You will receive a unique, hand-crafted tree ornament every day until Christmas; on Christmas, you will receive a unique, hand-crafted tree topper instead._
> 
> _We do hope you enjoy the ornaments, and we wish you a very merry Christmas indeed!_
> 
> _Your friends at the Tree Ornament Club_

“How lovely,” Aziraphale murmurs. He technically doesn’t celebrate Christmas, of course; but he does always decorate the shop anyway, and he loves how much joy the holiday season seems to bring to the humans.

He flips the card around, hoping for some indication of who might’ve signed him up for this; but the back of the card is blank, and the envelope has no indication either. Oh, well. Whoever it is — his suspicions are on Madame Tracy, or Anathema — they’ll likely let him know soon enough.

Setting the card and envelope aside, he carefully unwraps the ornament. It’s a bright red apple, with a bite taken out of it; it looks to be made out of blown glass.

He doesn’t have a tree in the shop yet, but it’s a matter of a quick miracle to create a festive fir garland stretching between two columns and hang the ornament on it.

* * *

There is no card in the box that arrives the second day, only the ornament itself; Aziraphale expects this will also be the case for future boxes, with, perhaps, a card revealing the gift giver in the very last box, the one containing the tree topper. Today, the ornament is a pair of wings, every feather perfect to the most minute detail; it appears to have been carved out of white opal.

* * *

The third ornament is round — almost like a medal, or a heraldry crest, perhaps. It’s cast in pure silver, and engraved with a unicorn rampant. The fourth is a crystal drop that looks like it might belong on a chandelier; it casts scattered rainbows all over the shop when the light strikes it.

The fifth ornament is the first surprising one. It’s an oyster shell — a real one, to all appearances, dipped in silver to preserve it.

The sixth ornament is a pewter knight figurine; the seventh, a set of painter’s tools, with individual bristles set into the brushes and the paint looking so real on the wooden palette he almost expects it to leave a stain on his finger when he touches it; the eight, a silver coin — a very fine reproduction of an Elizabethan-era penny.

* * *

By this point, Aziraphale is actively wondering who might’ve decided to sign him up for this. He’s had lunch with Madame Tracy and spoken on the phone with Anathema, and they both denied any knowledge of it. The only other person he can think of would be Crowley, but the demon is not a very festive person — in fact, Aziraphale might even go as far as calling him a veritable Grinch. Depending on his mood, he goes from barely tolerating the festivities to outright ranting about them. And anyway, they’ve seen each other almost every day, and the demon has only vaguely looked around at the decorated shop, barely dignifying the fir garland with a glance. If it had been him sending the ornaments, he’d have paid closer attention.

* * *

The ninth ornament is just plain confusing. It’s a flat disc made out of fabric, mostly a golden cream colour with some darker spots; there’s a scattering of embroidery on it, minuscule white flecks and some larger red-and-pink triangles of various sizes. The overall effect, when viewed at a distance, is that of the moon, or perhaps a crepe, he can’t quite tell. Either way, it’s rather silly.

The one after that — the tenth — is easier to identify; it’s a quaint little English shop, carved painstakingly and meticulously out of a beautiful, reddish-brown wood he can’t quite identify. It sort of resembles his own, although that’s obviously just a coincidence.

The eleventh ornament is a park bench, also carved out of wood; the twelfth, a very realistically rendered duck, covered in miniature feathers that feel utterly real to the touch. The thirteenth is a stack of books, made out of real paper and leather.

* * *

By this point, Aziraphale has set up a tree in the bookshop and moved all the ornaments to it; and Crowley does give it a good long look, eyebrows raised. “Not a whole lot of ornaments on your tree this year, angel.”

“Ah, no.” Aziraphale reaches over, moves a strand of tinsel so it’ll drape over a different branch and won’t obscure any of the lights, and adjusts the oyster shell so it’ll hang better. “I’ve been getting new ornaments. Thought I’d wait a bit, and see which of the old ones suit after I’ve got all the new.”

“Makes sense,” Crowley says, distractedly, already heading towards the door. “Lunch?”

Aziraphale sighs, and follows.

* * *

The fourteenth ornament is a miniature theatre programme, for — Aziraphale squints and sharpens his sight with a minor miracle, and then sighs. _The Sound of Music_. The universe has a funny sense of humour.

The fifteenth ornament is a realistic-looking gramophone, with a hand crank on the side. Curiously, Aziraphale tries turning it, and feels a mechanism winding up inside the ornament; when he lets go of the handle, the record on the turntable spins, and a tinkling, chiming version of the first movement of Vivaldi’s _Spring_ plays. How charming.

The morning of the sixteenth day, Crowley comes by the shop early in the morning and offers to take him to a Christmas market, far enough out of London that they only make it back in the evening — and then they may as well have dinner before going their separate ways. And so, Aziraphale opens that day’s box only after Crowley has left, just before midnight. The ornament is instantly recognisable — it’s a miniature Bentley.

The next day, Aziraphale unwraps the new ornament — a bottle, accompanied by two glasses half-full of red wine, the whole thing made of blown glass; hangs it on the tree, and then goes to lunch with Crowley; and hopes, but does not dare ask.

But Crowley says nothing. The Bentley ornament must have been just another coincidence, then.

* * *

The seventeenth ornament is a miniature rosebush in a terracotta pot; it looks utterly realistic, but touching it reveals it’s made of metal. The eighteenth is a rabbit popping out of a magician’s hat, the whole thing made out of felted wool.

The nineteenth is another book — dark green leather binding, aged paper, and gilded decorations on the cover. Aziraphale sharpens his eyesight with a miracle again, but he still cannot make out the title. The book does look rather familiar, though — but that’s not surprising. He is, after all, a book collector.

The twentieth is a small pane of glass, decorated very precisely with a section of the night sky Aziraphale doesn’t immediately recognise, but resolves to look up later. He doesn’t own any books on astronomy, but he knows Crowley does, he’s seen some at his flat; he might ask him.

The twenty-first ornament is a very finely crafted sword; Aziraphale runs a finger along the edge and finds it not perfectly sharp, but not quite blunt either. It tugs at him with familiarity, closely resembling the sword he’d once wielded, then given away. He might keep it out all year long, he thinks, and use it as a letter opener.

The twenty-second ornament is another strange one — a miniature bus. The twenty-third is a tiny rubber duck; when Aziraphale presses it between thumb and forefinger, it quacks.

The twenty-fourth and last ornament is another bottle-and-glasses set — champagne, this time, with two fluted glasses.

* * *

No box arrives in the mail on Christmas; but shortly before noon, Crowley walks through the bookshop door.

He’s not wearing his glasses; and he’s holding a now-familiar box in his hands.

“ _Oh_ ,” Aziraphale breathes out, the realisation hitting. “But — you hate Christmas.”

Crowley shrugs, brushing a hand gently along the branches of the tree as he passes by it. “You enjoy it. Thought I’d try it, and maybe I’d be persuaded to see the light.” He makes a face. “The too bright, too colourful, incredibly tackily decorated light.”

Aziraphale chuckles, leading the way into the back room. “Sounds like you’ve decided it’s not really your thing.”

“Eh, I didn’t say that.” Crowley hands Aziraphale the box, then flops onto the sofa with casual grace, patting the cushion next to him to indicate he should sit down as well; and smiling at him when he does, a little shyly. “It’s got some upsides. And I — it’s our first Christmas together. Properly together. I figured it warranted doing something special to celebrate. After all, as a certain someone has told me a great many times, it’s about togetherness. About spending time with the people you love.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says again, feeling tears fill his eyes. He clutches the still-unopened box to his chest.

Crowley pulls another face and shakes a finger at him. “Nope. No. No tears. Open the box, and stick the tree topper on the bloody tree, and have done with it. We’ll be late for lunch.”

“Oh, but…”

Crowley wraps an arm around him, pulling him close. “But nothing. Just tree ornaments, angel. Nothing special. You already know I love you. I’ve certainly told you enough.”

Aziraphale leans into the embrace, drumming his fingers lightly on the box. “I don’t think I’ll ever tire of hearing you say that, love.”

Crowley snorts softly. “Course you won’t. Self-centered prat.” He turns his head to press a kiss to Aziraphale’s hair, underlining the softness underneath the pretend mockery.

“Your self-centered prat, aren’t I?” If Crowley hadn’t already made it abundantly clear in the previous months, the tree ornaments would’ve done it for him. Not just tree ornaments at all, not a random, motley assortment. Each one carefully chosen to mark a moment in the six thousand years he and Crowley have known each other. And — “The card said — hand-crafted. You made all of the ornaments yourself?”

“Yeah, well, where d’you reckon I was going to find ones that were accurate enough for what I wanted them to represent? Nowhere, that’s where. And it’s not like I made them entirely by hand. I got frustrated, and lost patience, and made very liberal use of miracles.” Crowley huffs. “Like with that bloody crepe. Almost literally bloody, I stabbed myself with the needle so many times before I gave up and just miracled the embroidery. Almost wished I’d gone with my original idea, but a guillotine might’ve been a little bit too much on the nose, I thought.”

Aziraphale can’t help but laugh at that, wiping the unshed tears from his eyes. Typical Crowley. “A little bit, perhaps. Though if you had, I’d probably have guessed it was you.”

“You really didn’t know?”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “I’d hoped it might be you, when the Bentley ornament came. But the next day’s — I couldn’t place it, and we had lunch, and you said nothing, so I thought I must be mistaken. That it was just a coincidence.”

“I thought that might be the one that’d give me away. Guess I shouldn’t have worried.” Crowley grins crookedly. “Should’ve remembered how oblivious you can be.”

“I beg your pardon,” Aziraphale says, primly, trying and failing to scowl around the bright smile he can’t manage to suppress.

Crowley laughs. “Open the box, angel. We really are going to be late. I made an actual reservation, you know. Thought it wouldn’t do to miracle away someone else’s Christmas lunch.”

“How nice of you.” Aziraphale gives Crowley a pointed, sideways glance as he opens the box.

Crowley, predictably, grimaces. “Eugh. No. Demon. Not nice. I don’t do nice. Not even at Christmas.”

“As you say, darling.” Aziraphale unwraps the tree topper and holds it up to the light. “Oh, this is beautiful.”

Crowley blushes, two spots of colour plainly visible on his sharp cheekbones. “Shut up.”

“It is.” The tree topper is made entirely of silver, a delicate, accurate reproduction of the Earth, decorated with green and blue enamel; an angel and a demon are sitting on the globe, side by side, holding hands. “It’s absolutely lovely.”

“Shut _up_ ,” Crowley insists, a bit of a hiss slipping into his voice, as it always does when he’s flustered.

Aziraphale shakes his head, then stands and walks back into the main room of the shop, trusting Crowley will follow; and looks at the tree, considering. “Would you put it on the tree for me? I’m not quite sure I can reach.”

“You’re only a couple of inches shorter than me,” Crowley complains, taking the tree topper from Aziraphale and stretching on his tiptoes to put it in place, “and there’s a stepstool _right there_.”

Aziraphale laughs and wraps his arms around Crowley’s midsection, tugging him backwards as soon as the topper is on the tree. “Thank you, dearest.”

Crowley hums and turns around in Aziraphale’s arms, giving him a quick, gentle peck on the lips. “Merry Christmas, angel.”

“Merry Christmas, love.”

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I’m entirely aware the mail doesn’t deliver on Sundays and absolutely doesn’t deliver on Christmas, either. You reckon Aziraphale and Crowley know that?
> 
> Come find me on [Tumblr](https://wingedspirit.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
